The river rins ower quick fur its braidth,

sluppin lik skailt quicksiller atween its banks,

’sif it haed somewhaur ither tae gang

an wadnae get catch’t in the roup o fowk

            wha thrang the toun.

The burgh cloak rings oot its quarter ’oors,

an the bricht surface o the waater caa’s thaim

back lik the pennies we thraw tae the

ungratefu beggar, wha’d jalously keep

e’s pockets clean.

Nae time fur time, the Tweed rins oan as ay,

heedless o the sichts an souns its passin’s caurved

frae oot the land; mair heedless still o

aa the fowk wha’ve wrocht its fields an hills

            an sang its sang.